Amidst the Winter Rain
by Dawn of Fyre
Summary: (Au where Arya is Ashara Dayne's bastard daughter and was raised in Starfall after her mother died) - Jon Snow journeyed south to Dorne in hopes of participating in the tourney King Rhaegar Targaryen arranged for his wife, Queen Elia. There, under a cold winter rain his destiny would forever change. There was only one question he needed to asked himself ... did he believe in fate?
1. Chapter One

** **"When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears." ** **

**-0-**

**Amidst the Winter Rain**

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**Chapter One**

Jon Snow stood atop the large hill, under the angry grey clouds, overlooking the endless sands of the Red Mountains of Dorne.

Soon, it began drizzling. Cold droplets of water drenched his hair, skin, and the grey riding leather he wore. Rain began to fall more frequent and heavy. The light _patter_ of rain turned into wet thuds as the icy water raced to meet the ground. The drizzling turned into a copious downpour. Jon lingered there, though, for a while, beside his silvery-black palfrey. His gaze was fixed on the horizon; at the beauty of the setting sun against the backdrop of the vast red desert. As thunder began their merciless cry, he turned, mounted Moonlight, and trotted down the hill towards Starfall, the ancestral seat of House Dayne.

Starfall was so-called because of a meteor—most called it the fallen star—which fell out of the sky, almost two thousand years ago. The Daynes had forged a sword out of the meteorite ore called Dawn, a milky greatsword which in combat was as resilient and formidable as a Valyrian steel weapon. Jon had studied all the great known swords in existence, and Dawn was one of his favourite.

King Rhaegar Targaryen had arranged a tourney to be held at Sunspear in a moons turn, in honour of Queen Elia Martell's nameday. Knights and hedge knights from all over Westeros would be attending, Jon knew. And that was where he was heading, in hopes of participating as a mystery knight. The world knew him as the Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark's by-blow, and he hated it more than anything. So here he was, a man grown, journeying to Sunspear with only a longsword at his hip and the horse his father had gifted him. He aimed to make a proper name for himself in the tournament.

He could not continue, though, not until the worsening storm passed. The coldness seeped through his leathers and chilled him to the bone. Moonlight's hooves were sloshing through the thick, slushy mud. He whispered a wordless prayer to the old gods, thanking them that there were roads made of dirt and stone winding through Dorne. Travelling horseback through wet sand would likely end in a broken limb for any horse, no matter how able-bodied that horse was. The clouds grew darker and darker. A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, spooking Moonlight. Jon rubbed her neck firmly and whispered words of comfort. The bone-chilling cold was almost unbearable in the howling wind and icy rain. The sound of thunder erupted in crackling waves as another lightning bolt split the sky asunder.

"Seven hells, I thought it did not rain in Dorne," Jon muttered miserably. He slowed the pace, then checked the small bag hanging from his belt. He had three golden dragons and plenty of silver stags, more than enough for warm food and a soft bed for a moon or two. But he would need to be careful with how much he spent. A golden dragon or two would be required to buy full steel plate once he reached Sunspear, and only then would they allow him to participate in the tourney.

Starfall came into view not long after. The castle was large, and it stood on an island in the Torentine. The bridge that linked the island to land was wide and sturdy. The raging storm long extinguished the torches that lined its length.

Half way through he noticed the silhouette of a women sitting on top the stone parapet, feet dangling over the edge, gazing up at the stars that were hidden behind the clouds. _Does she have a wish of death? _Lightning lit the sky on fire and Jon got a good look at her from behind. She had long dark hair, and the purple gown she wore had darkened from the wetness and clung to her skin. "My lady," he called out to her. "It's dangerous for you to be sitting there. The river below will sweep you to your death if you should fall."

Just as she half turned to face him, lightning blazed once more and Jon saw a pair of violet eyes that would haunt his dreams for days to come. "Do I look like some maiden in distress?" A small smile danced on her lips. "I'm quite alright, ser," she said, turning back to look up at the clouded sky. "Have you not ever just wanted to linger under the rain?" she asked wistfully, "feel its cold touch while looking up at the stars?" She gestured at the sky with an open hand, as if to grasp the ungraspable. She looked lonely. The young woman reluctantly turned around, bringing her legs up over the edge and pushing herself back onto the safety of the bridge.

"I cannot say that I have, my lady." Jon swung down from the saddle and walked up to the woman with violet eyes. "Are there any inns around here?" he asked. "I am likely to freeze to death if I do not find shelter and a fire to warm me." She was shorter then he was, and looked to be the same age. _Unladylike for sure, _he thought, slightly amused.

"Is that a sword?" Before Jon could reply she stepped forward and touched the hilt with the ball of her thumb. "Are you a knight?"

"I will be," he told her. The icy rain made him shiver. "I'll be attending the tourney at Sunspear. Once I prove my worth, some renowned knight will surely anoint me in the seven oils right there and then. I will recite the knightly vows and rise as a knight."

"Only _knights_ are allowed to participate in tourneys, stupid," she said, almost playfully. "How do you plan to enter this tourney?"

"As a mystery knight."

She giggled at that. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheeks, which only made her that more beautiful. "May I ask your name?"

"Jon Snow."

"I like you, Jon Snow. My mother named me Arya … Arya Sand."

_Bastard-born, like me. _"A pleasure to meet you, my lady," Jon said, blushing at her boldness. "We should find shelter, lest we catch a cold, or worse."

She led him to the local tavern. He secured Moonlight to a post nearby and gave the horse one final rub before following Arya in. The place was modest and only cost a few silver stags to stay the night. Jon was surprised when she told him that Allyria Dayne—who had been the sister to her long dead mother, Ashara Dayne—was looking after her and had been kind enough to let her stay in Starfall with her cousin, the current Lord of Starfall, Edric Dayne.

"My lady," Jon said once she led him up the stairs and into the warm room. His heart started to thump faster in his chest. "I have a confession." He swallowed nervously, suddenly afraid at what her reaction would be. "My, my father is Lord Eddard Stark. Your uncle—"

"—I know," Arya said, still smiling. "The past is the past, Jon Snow. We are here now, alone in a warm room, safe from the wind and rain. That should be all that matters, no?"

He sighed in relief. For some reason, he could not bear the thought of her hating him. "Will I see you again—"

Arya silenced him by putting her finger to his lips. "Would you like that, Jon Snow? To see me again?" She bit her bottom lip. "Do you want to see me again?" Her cheeks were flushed red.

Was ever there a woman with eyes this haunting? "Yes." There was something about her … something heavenly that made him want to knell and pledge his sword to her. _Remember, she is Dornish, _he thought. In the North men said it was the food that made the Dornishmen so hot-tempered and their women so wild and wanton.

She gave him a look, a seductive look that promised a world filled with wonder and exploration. Then she was kissing him, entwining her fingers into his dark hair, and Jon pushed her back against the wall in response. He held her there, pressing his brow to hers, breathing heavily. His mind searched for a reason to stop, a reason that would stop him drowning in the want to kiss her. He managed to say, "We only just met. We do not know each other." The wetness of his clothes was long forgotten by now. He only felt the heat of her skin and his own.

She released him, breathless. "How long does it take to know someone?"

He had never asked himself that question before. "A week?" he said, uncertain. "A few weeks? Months?" It sounded stupid to quantify it, especially when he did not want to believe in his own reasoning. But he could not just go kissing someone he knew nothing about. It went against everything he had ever been told. So why was it so hard to say no?

Arya took his fingers in her own, playing with them gently. "I could wait." She looked so beautiful in the candlelight, her violet eyes nearly glowing against her shadowed porcelain skin. It haunted him, the sadness that sheltered behind those eyes of hers.

"I don't want you to," he whispered the words, and before he had even finished saying them, her mouth was on his and Jon was melting under her lush lips. He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her hard against him. Her body was air and he would suffocate without it.

"Do you believe in fate, Jon Snow?" Arya asked in-between kisses, breathless and flushed. "_Oh_, do you? Tell me you do."

Did he? Jon was not sure. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I'm starting too." There it was again, a glimmer in her eyes. Was it possible to fall in love this quickly? He brought his hand up and ran his thumb along her cheek bone. "Why do you ask, my lady?"

She looked almost shy. "When you found me on the bridge I was praying for someone to save me from my loneliness." She tilted her head to one side against the wall, exposing her neck to him. "Will you save me, brave knight?"

_I could never deny such a request, _he thought, falling in love. _One could lose himself in her eyes._ "A _knight_ is sworn to protect the young and innocent." He kissed the tip of her nose. "How could I not save you?"

Arya's face lit up. The brightest smile he had ever seen formed on her lips. But that was nothing compared to the glistening of her violet eyes. "Will you take me far away, Jon Snow? To Sunspear, or Winterfell, or King's Landing … will you show me the world?"

"Why me," he blurted without thinking. "If you hate it here, why wait until now?" Jon was curious. She could court any man in the Seven Kingdoms if she so wished. "You're very beautiful. You could have any man you desired."

"Do you think me some wanton?" Her eyes were sad now. "Men look at me with lust. They would bed me and throw me to the side after they were done … I am bastard-born like you, remember? I have nothing to inherit and no future in Starfall." Arya blushed shyly. "Besides, I'm still a maiden, Jon Snow, and I _will _not just bed any man with a pretty face." She cupped his cheek with a hand. "You understand, don't you? I know you do, I can feel it. We are the same, you and me."

"Yes," he whispered. Jon shivered and remembered their clothes were still wet. "You should go home, my lady. Your gown is soaked. You will get ill."

"Make me warm then," Arya whispered. She slid her arm from a sleeve and pushed the gown down, letting it pool at her feet. Shapely calves flowing into strong, beautiful thighs met his gaze. She stood before him in only her stockings and linen shift. "You're my man now, Jon Snow." Her hands went to the bottom of her shift, and she slid it up over her head. Her small breasts and mound covered in dark coarse hair came into view. "It was fate that brought us together. T-touch me, please." Her body and voice betrayed her boldness. She was trembling, and Jon did not think it was because of the cold.

_No,_ he meant to tell her_, you do not need to do this._ But when he saw her naked in the candlelight he seemed to lose the power of speech. He drank in the beauty of her slender body. And then somehow he was holding her, and she was pulling off his clothes. Arya's skin was smooth beneath his searching fingers, as warm to the touch as the red sand baked by the Dornish sun. Jon forced himself to stop once she had stripped him naked. He caught her chin in his fingers and tipped her face to his. "I cannot dishonour you, my lady." _I cannot bring another bastard into the world._ No child deserved to be born a bastard.

She looked uncertain. A raw look of innocence washed over her. After a short moment a shy smile flickered across her face. "What do you mean?"

He drew his thumb over her glistening lips. They were soft and smooth. He could not help but think about how her mouth would feel under his, so lush, warm and wet. He could have her if he wanted. He was just as much a maiden as she was … but he would not, not yet at least. "We should wait," he heard himself say. Jon knew it would be a mistake to go any further. It would ruin their blossoming relationship. She was worth so much more than a reckless night of passion.

Arya seemed relieved. "Oh, Jon Snow. I was right about you." She grabbed his hand and led him to the bed. "I do not want to sleep alone." She blushed beautifully in the candlelight. "Will you hold me tonight? I just want you to hold me."

Jon nodded as he watched her climb under the pile of furs. "You are beautiful, my lady. Every part of you is beautiful."

"Arya," she said. "My name is _Arya_. Won't you say it?"

"Arya," he repeated in a husky voice, and climbed in after her.

"I like it when you say my name." She wrapped her arms and legs around him and laid her head against his bare chest. "Show me the world, Jon Snow," Arya breathed, half-asleep already. "Take me far away …"

He dreamed of her violet eyes that night, and when he woke, he was in love.

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**I wrote this months ago, but never got around to finishing it as life got in the way. **

**I've now revised the chapters I wrote (Which is two) and will be writing the final third chapter that will conclude this romantic fluff.**

**Anyone else love Arya with haunting violet eyes? It's really-heart breakingly-cute. **


	2. Chapter Two

**Enjoy.**

**Amidst the Winter Rain**

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**Chapter Two  
**

Beneath the occasional rain, the burning sun of Dorne still stood defiant in the clouded sky. All the waterholes they came across had been replenished by the winter rains, and for that Jon was thankful. By the time they were half way to Hellholt, Arya had already pointed out three abandoned holdfasts with their large fluted columns and triple arches engraved in ancient Dornish runes. Centuries of abandonment meant the red sands had crept back in to reclaim their own.

Jon had been worried at first, when they had gathered all the necessary supplies for the journey to Sunspear. Arya had insisted that they not tell her kin about their plans. "A _dangerous_ adventure," she had told him, "It wouldn't feel the same if other people know." At the end of their brief disagreement, she had compromised and left a letter telling her cousin that she was safe and would return in due time.

They arrived at another abandoned holdfast as the sun crept down over the horizon on the fifth day of their journey. The sky was a tapestry of orange and purple, and the clouds glowed crimson. The holdfast was in ruins, its columns crumbling. In the tiled inner courtyard half-buried by the drifting sands, part of a stone wall still stood strong. The winter winds were rushing down from the north and the thick wall would serve to protect from the weather.

"We should stay here for the night," Jon said as he was helping Arya water the horses. They carried their own water, and would replenish their supplies when they came across a waterhole. "We should reach Hellholt in a few days." There they planned to buy supplies and sleep in a soft bed before departing for Vaith, where they would sell the horses and hire a poleboat that would take them down the Greenblood all the way to Sunspear.

Arya nodded. "It looks as good a place then any, Jon Snow." She smiled warmly, unlacing the veil that protected her face from the wind and sand. It was made of shimmering silk, pale blue above and purple below, the colours blending into one another. The great silk cape of the same colouring flowed down over her shoulders, almost touching the ground. "Best we cuddle tonight," she said, grinning. "To keep ourselves _warm_ of course." They hobbled the horses to trees long dead and moved passed the fallen columns into the courtyard. Once there, she unfolded the thick woollen blankets and laid them out near the sturdy wall.

_Winter is truly here, _he thought, feeling the cold seep into his Dornish clothing. Before departing from Starfall, Arya had him change from his riding leathers into something more suitable for the journey across the desert. Winter may be here, but the day still grew hot at times. He wore silk and satin robes with flowing sleeves, striped black, grey and scarlet. All other coloured robes she had him wear made him embarrassed. He was a northerner, through and through, and dark colours was what he liked wearing best. Besides, his skin was pale, and the Dornish colours of orange and yellow made him look out of place. Jon glanced up at the darkening sky and said, "We should find some wood for a fire."

She shook her head when he made a move to exit the courtyard. "You made the fire last time." Arya stretched her limbs and gave Jon a quick hug. "It's my turn, so just relax while I fetch some kindling." She kissed him on the corner of his mouth before turning away.

"As my lady commands," Jon said, smiling. _Every part of her is beautiful, _he thought, watching her backside sway as she walked away_. _He unsheathed his longsword that was buckled to the leather belt that keep his robes in one piece, sat upon the edge of the nearby well, and began to hone the blade with an oilstone. He kept one eye on her, in case she had need of him. But mostly because he liked gazing upon her beauty.

Even in summer the Dornish nights grow cold out upon the sands, and winter only made it that much more cold. Arya gathered wood, bleached white branches from trees that had withered up and died a long time ago. She built a fire, concentrating hard as she struck sparks off her flint.

Once the kindling caught alight, they sat around the flames and passed a skin of summerwine between each other while they ate from their rations; dates and bread and cheese, enough to last them a few more days. Arya was in a lively mood and entertained him with stories he had not heard before, old tales from before the conquest, in the time of Queen Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. The more she spoke the more Jon knew it was impossible; he would never be able to look into her violet eyes without getting mesmerised by its haunting beauty.

"I will win the tourney," Jon blurted out after she had told him about the tragic love between Naerys Targaryen and Aemon the Dragonknight. The surprised look on Arya's face only made his determination grow. When she giggled, he said, "You shall see. I'll win the joust and name you my queen of love and beauty."

"Are you now?" A blush appeared across her cheeks. "There will be many a good knight participating, Jon Snow. How does my brave knight, who is not a knight yet, plan to defeat these good men?" There was playfulness in the tone of her sweet voice.

The smile she gave him took his breath away. Beneath her girdle and many layers of flowing purple silk and blue samite she had a woman's body, lean but curved. All the silk she wore to protect her from the sun and cold only served to make her that more lovely. Everything about her was lovely. "I have something these good knights do not."

"_Oh_, and just what might that be?"

"A heart worth fighting for," Jon said softly.

That must have sparked something inside her, because the next thing he knew, she had pulled him into an embrace. "I think I have fallen in love with you," she whispered shyly against his ear. "In all my life I have never felt like this." She pressed the softest of kisses along the dark stubble of his jawline. "Sometimes … I lay awake at night, staring at the glittering stars, fearing that if I close my eyes and open them again, you will be gone from my life. The thought alone tears at me inside. So tell me, Jon Snow. Do you feel about me the way I feel about you?"

In her teary eyes he saw something more beautiful than the stars. More beautiful than anything. _How could I not?_ It was like asking if he needed fire to keep warm. "Yes," he breathed, "I do." His mouth found hers and he gently nipped her bottom lip before pulling back. "I knew the second I met you that there was something about you I needed. Then I realised what it was. It was not something about you at all. It was just you. Something about you makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to water. Or burst into flames. If this feeling I feel is not love, then tell me what is?"

Arya sighed and touched his cheek, drawing circles with her thumb. "Oh, Jon. You sure do know how to unlock a maiden's heart." She bit her lip and gave him a searching look.

His heart ached. It was as if there were a hollow emptiness inside him and only one person could save him. Jon was more conscious of Arya Sand than he had ever been of anything or anyone else in his entire life; he noticed the sparkle in her violet eyes, the way her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders when her head tilted, how her skin seemed to glow in the light of the setting sun—and more than anything else … her mouth, the crescent shape of it, and the way her pink lips glistened. When she leaned toward him and brushed her lips across his, he reached for hers as if he would otherwise drown.

For a moment their mouths pressed together with a burning passion, Jon's hand tangling in her hair. Arya gasped when he slipped his free hand into the layers of her silk and cupped one of her small breasts. Her skin was burning hot to the touch and she trembled when he brushed his thumb across her nipple. She put her hands around his neck and pulled him into a deeper kiss. She was blossoming under his touch, and that just made the feeling in his chest that more intense.

By the time they stopped their intimate exploration, the sun had retired and the sky was full of stars. _So many, _Jon thought. He leaned back against a fluted pillar and wondered if his siblings were looking at the same stars tonight. The flames flickered and danced before them, smoke winding into the air. Arya had nestled into a comfortable position on his lap. Her soft breathing and warmth was the only comfort he needed on such a cold night.

When Arya yawned, Jon knew it was time. They would continue their journey in the morning and sleep would be needed. She was half-asleep in his arms when he helped her up and led her to the sturdy wall where she had laid out the blankets. Once under, they cuddled, the warmth of each other's bodies making them smile lazily while they drifted asleep.

Come morning, they departed east once more.

After another three days of riding in sun and rain they neared Hellholt. They knew they were close when they came upon a tree. It was a gnarled and twisted thing with as many thorns as leaves. Sandbeggars they were called, and it meant that they were not far from water. Hellholt was situated next to the Brimestone, a river known for its sulphurous waters.

The wind came gusting from the west, cold and dry and full of grit. The veils protected them from the worst of the blowing sand. "We should be close, Arya," Jon told her cheerfully when they spied more sandbeggars up ahead, a thicket of them growing all around the dry bed of a stream. He caressed Moonlight's crest and urged her forward, then looked over his shoulder to make sure Arya was following. As the sun descended and the moon rose, the winter chill came upon them once again. But none of it mattered once the seat of House Uller came into view.

The buildings in Hellholt were three stories tall and their roofs were a sandy colour. Near the water's edge was the keep of House Uller. Its grey brick towers were the highest point in the town, and at its peak, their yellow over crimson banners fluttered atop poles.

The moonlight crowned Arya in its silvery glow as they trotted through the streets. "There is a Dornish saying," she told him once they came to a junction, "that half of the Ullers are half-mad, and the other half are worse."

"Best we avoid such madmen then." Jon chuckled and noticed a stable to their left. "A stable," he said, gesturing. "It would do some good to let the horses have a good feed and a roof over their heads. We could ask for directions to the nearest inn as well. "

Arya nodded and followed. Once they dismounted outside of the stables, Jon gave a shout. A few more shouts and a stable boy came running, half-asleep from the look of him. The olive-skinned boy mumbled about the hour, but led them inside once he got a handful of coppers. The stables had not been mucked out in a while. The smell made Arya grimace. Black flies swarmed amongst the straw, buzzing from stall to stall and crawling over the mounds of horse dung that lay on the ground.

Jon put a few more coppers into the boy's hand and told him to look after the horses and their belongings until they came back. "I shall take good care of them, ser," the stable boy murmured while he yawned. "There will be an inn down the street, if you and your lady wife have need of a warm bath and a featherbed."

"You have my thanks," Jon told the boy and gave him an extra copper for his troubles.

Outside the stables rain had started falling, heavier and icier then the previous days. Distant lightning flashed in the north, followed by the crackling of thunder. Arya was still blushing from the stable boy's comment. "You did not correct him," she teased. "Mayhaps I was asleep when we were wedded. _Oh,_ how could I forget my own bedding?" She touched her cheek and sighed so sweetly. "I would have loved to remember such a pleasure."

Jon flushed. "As I recall, my sweet lady, you did not correct him as well." Arya giggled and let him pull her after him. Hand in hand, they went racing through street, toward the inn. They could not have gone more than fifty yards from the stables, yet already they were soaked to the bone. The cold rain lashed them both and washed away her giggles, and all Jon could think of was what she had said before. _I would have loved to remember such a pleasure, _her voice echoed in his thoughts.

A skinny woman with dark hair and darker eyes was sweeping the floors when Jon and Arya entered, all wet and shivering. The innkeeper wore red-and-yellow sandsilk, and on her hip was a dagger. "There is one empty room at the top of the stair," she said. "If you have the coin, the boy will fetch some hot water for a bath."

The room at the top of the cramped narrow staircase was dusty and small. There was a featherbed and table on one side of the room and a tub and shelf on the other. "Leave your boots down here," the innkeeper told them after she had taken their coin. "The boy will clean them after he gets your bath ready. Meals will be served in the common room, and those who come late don't eat."

When the bath was ready, they were left alone in the small room. Steam flowed from the surface of the filled tub. On the shelf to the right was towels, soap and a jug of rose water to scent the bath if they so desired. Jon sat by the window, watching rain run down the pane. The glass was milky and full of bubbles. His soaked flowing robes clung to his skin. In the reflection he saw Arya start to unlace herself.

He turned and gave her a confused look. "What are you doing?" Jon had planned to let her bathe first while he waited outside. It would be the honourable thing to do.

"You have already seen me naked," Arya said innocently. Her dark hair was darker from the rain and strands were plastered to her flushed cheeks. "We have already shared a bed … _naked_ … and if I remember correctly, that night you held me as tightly as I held you." She giggled. "Worry not, brave knight, your chastity is safe with me."

_Does she think this a game? _There was only so much teasing he could take before his resolve broke. "It's not me you should be worried about," he said, unable to look away from her violet eyes. "You tempt me with every breath."

She gave him that sly, secret smile. That smile meant she was up to something. "The waters getting cold," Arya complained. When Jon made no move to leave, she said, "Well, if you won't leave, I guess I'll just have bathe with you in the room."

Before he had a chance to protest, she started fumbling at her clothes, her delicate hands trembling slightly. Jon's gaze must have unnerved her, but she managed the laces and buttons. Her cloak and girdle and loose layers of flowing silk slid to the floor, until finally she was stepping out of her smallclothes. Gooseprickles covered her arms and legs. She kept her eyes on the floor, nervous and shy, but when she was done she glanced up and found Jon staring.

She covered her breasts with her hands. "W-what are you staring at?"

His daze broke and he went to her in three fast strides. He caught her hands and pushed them down, forcing her breasts to spill out into his view. Arya looked frightened for a moment. Jon brought his hand up and held her by the nape of her neck, tilting her head to one side. "Only you." He nuzzled her neck. "I will only ever stare at you." Playing with fire, that was what Arya loved to do … but could she handle the inferno once it was started? Jon doubted it.

"The _water_, Jon, it will get cold." She snaked her hand between them. Her palm pressed against his chest. "We shouldn't," she whispered so low he almost did not hear her.

"Gods be good, Arya," Jon muttered under his breath. "Why must you tempt me like this?" When he was with her, he did not know whether he could tell honour from shame, or right from wrong. _Father forgive me_. Winding one arm around her waist so she could not step away from him, he caught her chin in his fingers and tipped her face to his. "I want you," he said, watching her flush from ear to ear.

"The bath—"

"—does not matter," Jon insisted, his intent gaze on her lips. "Is this not what you wanted?" He drew his hand from her chin to the base of her spine, and then pressed her into him while his mouth descended on hers.

Her lips were unmoving at first, then Jon slowly coaxed her lips apart and let his tongue explore within. The way Arya returned his kisses and held him tightly simply served to stoke the fire that was already burning hot within him. All his resolve about staying celibate until marriage dissolved like salt stirred into water at the press of her lips and tongue against his.

Her hands came up tentatively, fluttering against his arms as though she was unsure what to do with them. She finally curled the fingers of one hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. The other she pressed tight against the back of his shoulder. It almost seemed as though she was willing more of him against her.

"Get undressed," Arya commanded in a low husky voice. She unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the floor. "The rain has soaked right through you. You might get a chill."

Once Jon stripped off his wet Dornish clothing, he was all over her again. He brought a hand around and cupped one small breast, brushing his thumb over her nipple until it grew erect. She moaned deep in her throat and arched into him. Revelling in the softness of her breast against his palm, Jon pressed his hardness against her so she could feel what she was doing to him, and how much he wanted her.

Arya pulled away from him, gasped, looked down for a moment, then smiled shyly and sealed her mouth back on his with a new urgency.

"I love you," Jon said in-between kisses. _More than I thought possible. _She felt firm and warm under his touch. Every feeling of shame and wrongness had been burned away by now. The only need he had was her, and he found he could not resist the temptation anymore.

"I love you too." There was only pure desire on her face, resonating strongly in the violet of her eyes. Her mouth was slightly agape as she breathed fast and heavy. "Touch me, Jon," she whispered in his ear.

Those few seductive words that came out from her lush pink mouth made his heart explode with a new kind of need. Jon slowly slid his hand down her belly to the sweet wet place beneath the thicket of black hair. She spread her legs to give him better access, and he slid his fingers between her wet folds. Arya gasped, and then made a low, satisfied sound in her throat. "Yes, there. Touch me—_oh. _Yes, right there_. Ohhh._" That reaction alone made his body ache with the desire to drag her to the bed and help her discover all the ways a man and woman could find pleasure together.

Jon slanted his mouth over hers and hungrily sank his tongue into her mouth, trying to consume her. She whimpered against his lips and his manhood twitched. The hair upon her mound was soft and curly. He dragged his fingers over her sex, back and forth, and then slowly eased one finger inside. His hardness was straining against her navel, and twitched with every moan she let out.

"Arya," Jon whispered against her lips. He had never felt this sort of heat and longing for another person. He could not say why Arya made him feel this way, but Jon knew that there would never be anyone else for him. He wanted her to feel that too, to have that assurance. He would do whatever he had to do to make sure that Arya knew that he was hers.

"Yes?" she breathed.

"Touch me," he pleaded and felt his cheeks burn. He wanted to feel her fingers around his … the thought alone made him groan.

Wordless, she complied. Her determined eyes were downcast and drunk in the image of his pulsing cock. There was more lust in her violet eyes in that moment then Jon had ever seen before. With her hand firmly covering him, he was getting harder by the moment. She pressed lightly, and two of her fingers swept up his shaft.

"It's so warm," she blurted. "I didn't know they moved like this." It was twitching in her soft hand.

He let out a slow breath, as soft as he could, but there was no hiding his reaction from her. "Only for you," Jon managed to murmur. He sucked in a breath when her fingers moved over the top of his manhood.

"The bed," Arya said, gesturing with her head. "I'm likely to fall if we remain standing." Her legs were starting to tremble and she wrapped her arms around Jon's neck for support.

Without a second thought, Jon cupped her behind with both hands and pulled her up against him. Her legs quickly wrapped around his hips for stability. Jon had one hand under her and another holding the small of her back. This way she would not accidentally fall. _Gods, she's so wet, _he thought, feeling his member pulse against the damp petals of her womanhood. Both of them reddened when they realised how close their intimate parts were. But neither could bring themselves to look away from each other's gaze.

With her clung to his body, Jon walked to the bed and sat on the edge. Arya settled comfortably on his lap with her legs still wrapped around him. She shuffled closer until his hardness was pressed up against her once again.

"Make me yours," Arya whispered against his lips. And once again their mouths crashed together, nipping and sucking. Hands caressed and searched, drawing moans from each other. "I want all of you, Jon Snow." She rubbed herself against his cock, her secret sweetness dripping down his length. "Everything you've got to give me."

The throaty request, falling from her glistening lips, made him groan. Slipping his hand under her thigh, he eased her up and, carefully positioning his member at her wet entrance, slowly pushed inside her. She was tight. A painful gasp escaped from her mouth and Jon froze. "I'm sorry, Arya—I didn't mean too …" His heart clenched when he noticed blood dribbling down his length.

She lifted her head and smiled for him, so sweetly. "I'm alright, just … just don't move for a while." Sweat had covered her brow and rolled down her cheeks. "It's not as painful as I thought it would be." She slid her fingers through his damp hair. "It feels weird, different … I feel really full inside."

"I never want to hurt you." He found her lips and kissed her deep, wishing to burn away the pain and discomfort. "I just want to make you feel good." He found that giving her pleasure gave him a peculiar pleasure he could not describe with words alone.

Every now and then he felt her squeeze around him, and it was almost enough to tip him over the edge. Every instinct told him to move, to fuck her hard and spill his seed inside her. But she had asked him to not move, and Jon would never betray her. Arya's eyes were closed and her breathing laboured. She clutched at his shoulders and buried her face into his neck.

Jon felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began.

After a little while, he felt her shift around restlessly, and he knew what she wanted. He was slow at first, deliberate, pushing inside her ever so slowly. Moaning, Arya dug her nails into his nape, her small breasts were flushed, her nipples lush beads he wanted to roll against his tongue. _Seven hells, she's tight, _he thought. He knew he would not last much longer, it was too much, she was too much. She felt wet and tight and he was losing himself inside her.

The deeper he went, the louder she moaned, half in pain and half in pleasure. "Jon … that feels ... that feels incredible." Her hair tumbled down across her bare shoulders to the tops of her small breasts, dark and silky.

A few more thrusts and he knew he was almost finished. "I'm going too … I can't—gods, Arya. I'm … I'm …" Jon moaned against her neck and tried to slow his movements, but his body would barely listen to his commands. He needed to give her more pleasure, he knew he had to.

Her fingers trailed down his chest, feeling the muscles and the thin sheet of sweat. "It's alright," Arya told him, breathless. "I think I'm close as well." She reached down and started to rub herself above the point where they were intimately connected. "Brave knight," she moaned, "sweet knight. I want you, only you. Yes. Oh, yes. Please, Jon. Deeper. _Please_ …" she managed between thrusts as her fingers caressed herself in a motion that matched the rhythmic pulsations that they developed.

Jon brushed away the sweat off her cheeks with his thumb and nipped at her lips with his teeth. "I love you." He kissed her ears, her throat, her nose, and, as his thrusts accelerated, her mouth. "You're mine. Mine, Arya Sand. Mine as I'm yours, forever yours." He kissed her again and again, until she was weeping with pleasure. He murmured loving words, and her arousal gushed through her like a flood. He could feel the rapid contractions of her moist womanhood around his cock. Ripples of ecstasy flooded through her, changing her, making her indelibly his.

Distantly, Jon heard her cries, and they made him groan as nothing ever had. He felt the first rush and jerked. Something in his mind told him he needed to pull out, but it was already too late. His blood roared through his veins like wildfire, burning and tingling. He buried his face in her shoulder and muffled his shout, his seed rushed inside her womb in waves of pleasure.

Even in the aftermath he would not let go. Falling backwards onto the featherbed, he brought her with him, kissing her and playing with her hair. "Arya, I never knew ... I never knew it would feel like that." His seed trickle down her thigh when he slipped out of her, the white mixing with the red of her maiden's blood. "You're beautiful," he said, still breathing unevenly.

Arya smiled lazily, her eyes still closed. "You think so?" Her flushed breasts rose and fell against his chest with each shallow breath.

"The most beautiful," he replied, smiling. "I do hope my sweet lady enjoyed herself."

"Thoroughly." When she opened her violet eyes, she giggled and said, "Oh no. Don't you dare smile, Jon Snow. You'll kill me. I stop breathing when you smile."

Jon grinned at that. "How can I not smile when the most beautiful woman in Westeros is resting on top of me?"

"Murderer," Arya sighed, then gave a little laugh. She pushed herself upright and planted her hands firmly on his chest to keep her steady. "The bath might still be warm. It's big enough for two, if we squeeze in together."

It was no use. The fire was in him again. "The bath can wait." Jon pulled her onto her side and then rolled on top. Arya bit her lip and gasped when he entered her again. He sucked her rosy nipples till she cried out in pain and pleasure. "I like it when you moan, Arya. You sound so sweet." He fucked her then, till she screamed, and then again until she wept. This time the two of them reached their peak together.

"My brave knight," she murmured after, in a sleepy voice. "Stay inside me, please. I like the feel of you there."

Jon did not move, except to wrap his arms around her. _It feels so good to hold her, and to be held_, he thought. _How can something this sweet be a sin in the eyes of the gods? _Jon nuzzled her hair and filled his nose with the smell of her. "Arya," he said, "wed me." He had spent his seed within her twice already, and the one thing Jon Snow could not bear was the thought of fathering a bastard.

"Fate has already wed our hearts together." She yawned and pulled the coverlets over their naked bodies. "But … if you do want a wedding. Then … only if you win the tourney."

She look at him then, and gave a knowing smile that warmed his heart. _Gods be good, _he thought, getting lost in her violet eyes. _Nothing can stop me now. _"I will win, Arya, you'll see. I'll it win for you and crown you in front of all the lords and ladies of Westeros." How could he lose? It was like having the fate of the world on his shoulders. Not even the gods themselves could stop him now.

"Then you'll show me the world?"

_I'd give you this world, _he thought. "Yes."

Arya sighed sweetly in approval.

They drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, too tired to care that they were much too sweaty, and that seed and blood had stained the sheets beneath them. They would worry about it in the morning.

Jon dreamed of victory that night, and a crown made from blue winter roses.


	3. Chapter Three

**Enjoy.**

**Amidst the Winter Rain  
**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Vaith was an old town, built thousands of years before the War of Conquest. The great land bridge—Arya had explained the night they rode into Vaith—was how the two largest continents in the world were connected during the Dawn Age. Full of hills and forest, the First Men had crossed from Essos to Westeros by this great stretch of land, for they were not seafarers like the Andals had been. According to her, the only remnants of this bridge that still exist are the Stepstones and the Broken Arm of Dorne.

"It was the Andals who had first settled in these hills east of the deep dunes and sands of Dorne," Arya said, yawning. She was sitting on a wooden armchair next to the foggy window, near where Jon was lying half naked on the small bed stuffed with goose feathers. "The Vaiths raised that tall, pale castle in these hills, at the juncture of the two streams that formed the river that soon bore their name."

"An old castle with rich history," Jon added, staring at the ceiling that was black from soot. There were cracks that ran along the wood from wall to wall. _A fire must have ripped through this room, _he thought. _Do we sleep in a room filled with death? _"I apologise, my lady. I would have purchased a room more worthy of you … bigger and more comfortable. You deserve such things." There were only a handful of inns and taverns in Vaith, and most had been full for the night.

"It's only for a night," Arya said, giggling. In her hand was a copy of _The Loves of Queen Nymeria_. One of her favourite books. "Come morning, we'll depart from this dusty old town." The earthy smelling tavern named _Leopards Spear _was built from thick wood and red sandstone, and had only cost half a silver stag for a hot meal and nights rest. The room had a low ceiling, and was cramped and dusty, but sleeping under a roof was better than sleeping under a rainy sky. "The orphans of the Greenblood will take us down the river to Planky Town, and from there we ride to Sunspear."

Jon sat up, feeling tired and slightly hungry. His legs were over the edge of the bed and the rough planks felt good beneath his bare feet. There was a small fireplace near the empty bookshelf, and it kept the room nice and warm. "Perhaps we should retire for the night, my lady. Tomorrow will be another long day." _And I would have you in my arms again, _he thought. The flickering flames from the fireplace illumined the room, crowning Arya in its fiery light. In her flowing purple silks and blue samite, she was as pretty as ever. Even more so, he thought, now that he knew her heart was his._ And mine hers. _

"Retire, you say?" Her lips curled into a smirk. Without looking at him, she turned a page from the book and said, "I know you, Jon Snow. Once the fire within you is stoked, you'll have me, tired or not."

"Would you have me sleep elsewhere?"

She cocked her head to one side, amused at the suggestion. "You shall do no such thing."

Jon gave a throaty laugh, arching his brow. He became hopelessly mesmerised by her haunting beauty. "As my lady commands." With skin as light as porcelain, it only served to bring out the full colour of Arya Sand's violet eyes. Her long dark hair flowed down past her shoulders, swaying with a regal appeal at every tilt of her head. The oval shape of her face and broad cheeks only made her that more lovely. Everything about her was lovely. "Will you not come to bed?"

"After this page," she said, gesturing at the book in her hand. "I find that reading a chapter before sleep brings forth wonderful dreams."

"What kind of dreams?' he asked, curious.

Arya kept her eyes down, still reading. After a moment, she closed the book and gave him a sly smile before walking over to the feather bed. "_That,_ my sweet brave knight," she whispered seductively, starting to undress for him. "That is only for me to know, and you to forever ponder."

Jon inhaled deeply, a smile dangling at the corners of his lips.

When morning came, half-light filtered through the windowpane, revealing the countless specks of dust that floated through the room. The Dornish sun rising in the far distance, bathing the town in all its colours. The old pale castle was partially in view from the window, and atop a fluttering pole the banner of House Vaith flew; three leopards amidst a yellow pile on orange. Sworn bannermen to House Martell of Sunspear.

They had slept naked beneath the soft blanket, bodies entwined. They shared the same feather pillow, their noses inches from each other. He found that sleeping like that was the best kind of sleep a man could have. Waking up before Arya was the real prize, though. He liked staring at her sleeping face, waiting for the moment she woke and revealed those beautiful eyes of hers to him.

_Do you dream of me? _Jon thought, _as I dream of you?_

As if in response, Arya woke. Blinking owlishly, she noticed him staring, and became shy all of a sudden. "Do you always stare at me when I'm asleep?" Dark stands of her hair fell down over her cheek, and he brushed them away with his thumb, his touch lingering on her warm skin.

"_Always._"

She kissed him then, slow and full of longing, and he kissed her back, just as fiercely. The flame was stoked once more, and they would have continued their passion if not for the fact that they had made plans already. The orphans of the Greenblood would pole their boats into Vaith just after dawn, and depart before midday. If they missed the orphans, they would need to wait another day.

Grey clouds stormed down from the north, and Jon knew it would be another rainy day. They dressed in silence, packed their belongings and left the tavern after breaking their fast on freshly cooked flatbread, olives and green peppers stuffed with onions and cheese. A cold northern breeze swept across the town as they made their way through the winding streets of Vaith. It was like a maze; there were streets and narrow alleyways everywhere. Most of the buildings were as high as two-storeys, and built from wood and coloured sandstones. On every corner there were dark-skinned Dornishmen preparing for the day, setting up stalls and organising queer looking merchandise to sell to anyone who would buy.

They continued for a while more, walking hand in hand through alleyways and streets cluttered with Dornishmen before finally reaching their destination. "There's the wharf," Arya pointed out as they walked onto the riverbank lined with planks and stone. "It's the only one Vaith has." Fishermen were already on the sandbanks, knee deep in water, fishing with cast nets along the river. A score of pole boats were moored to the old wooden wharf; every one of them painted in different colours, and carved in such detail that it left Arya gasping in delight.

Vaith was a slow-moving and shallow river with green murky waters; the river streamed eastward and connected with the Greenblood. The orphans lived on the river and its tributaries, fishing, picking fruit, and once in a while escorting people from town to town for coin. But most of their work came from Planky Town where they traded with carracks, cogs, and galleys from across the narrow sea.

"Twelve silver," the olive-skinned captain said once more in a heavy accent, unwavering from the price he set. He was dressed in sandy-coloured rags, and had a dark beard that had grown long and thick. "Twelve silver or no passage." The orphans of the Greenblood were stern people, and would rarely waver from decisions. It was no wonder they had refused to assimilate into Dornish culture.

"_Eight,_" Arya insisted, smiling sweetly. They had been arguing about the price for a good ten minutes now, and the other pole boats were already starting to depart. The wind was growing stronger, and had she not tied her hair into an elegant crown braid, strands would be flying everywhere. "You mistake me for someone who hasn't been up and down the Greenblood before." She crossed her arms and gave the captain a challenging look. "Twelve silver is thievery."

The captain ran a hand through his beard, studying her with dark beady eyes. "Aye," he laughed, turning to face the two other orphans that were near the boat, waiting for orders with poles in hand. "Maron. Daggy. We go to Planky Town."

By the time they paid the eight silver, got on-board and began east, rain had started pelting the boat. The pole boat was low of roof and wide abeam, and had two small cabins within. The tiller was carved into a giant turtle's head, and many smaller turtles were carved along the railing. _There's beauty in this craftsmanship, _Jon thought. Arya explained that even the poorest of the orphan boats were beautifully carved and painted. This one was coloured in shades of blue and green that seemed to blend together. _The colours of Mother Rhyone_, the captain had said. Poles and ropes and jars of fruit cluttered its decks. The crew were strong men, and braved the wet weather as they poled the boat along the Vaith.

The journey from Vaith to Planky Town was slow but comfortable; the crew insisted it would take no more than week to reach their destination. The cabin was warm more oft than not, and more comfortable then Jon had first thought. They were left alone most hours while the crew worked the boat. Their time was spent exchanging stories about past tourneys and history, playing games of _cyvasse_ the captain had given them, and embracing passionately under the coverlets of the small bed. Sizzling strips of bacon and golden biscuits were served at the break of dawn, while fresh caught fish covered in seaweed at midday, and at dusk they would feast on lamb, stuffed grape leaves and flatbread, with Dornish strongwine to wash it all down.

"Lady Delonne Allyrion is the current Lady of Godsgrace," Arya had explained as they drifted passed the ancient seat of House Allyrion. Godsgrace was situated at the junction between the Vaith, the Scourge and the Greenblood rivers. The towering castle was made from red and white sandstone and had been built in the centre of the large sandy town. Beneath the banners of House Martell flew the banners of House Allyrion; a golden hand on a gyronny coloured red and black. Besides Godsgrace, there was no other town for another seventy leagues.

All along the Greenblood, green willows grew in clusters, drinking up the green murky water. Sandbeggars with their twisted limbs also grew in-between the willows; ugly trees they were, but any sensible adventurer in Dorne would always be on the lookout for them, for they were signs that water was nearby. Beyond the various trees that lined the river, the red sands of Dorne stretched into the distance, as far as the eye could see. An endless sea of sand that would swallow even the bravest of adventurers should they get lost.

The sun was slowly descending over the horizon when they arrived at Planky Town. It was the largest and most populated town in Dorne, the nearest thing the Dornish have to a true city. At first Jon thought that Arya was jesting when she told him that it was a city with planks instead of streets, where the houses and halls and shops were built from pole boats, carracks and merchant ships that had sunk along the coastline. The whole town floated at the mouth of the Greenblood, and was held together with hempen rope that if laid out in a straight line, would extend for a hundred leagues.

The royal fleet were anchored in the bay, their three-headed dragon banners visible for all to see. The war galley _Dragonflame _was out at sea, too big for the port; the flagship of the royal fleet boasted four hundred oars and was so big that even from where Jon stood, it was distinguishable. Warships in groups of four patrolled up and down the eastern coastline, guarding from any potential threats.

Knights and squires were in abundance, walking up and down the plank streets that curved and twisted through Planky Town. On every man was a different sigil, carved into plate and embroidered into cloak. Jon had never seen so many knights and hedge knights in the one place before. It made him nervous for the first time. In his head it had been simple; win a few jousts and melee competitions and some great knight would see his skill at arms and knight him afterwards. Then he had met the star of his heart in Starfall and now he needed to defeat every other jouster and crown Arya Sand the tourney's queen of love and beauty. But now, watching all these confident knights stride along with fluttering cloaks, it made his heart race with doubt.

_I will win, _Jon thought with uncertain determination. _I must win and lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Arya's lap._ He made a promise to marry her, and he meant to keep it. "We have a week before the tourney commences. We should buy some strong sand steeds and ride for Sunspear."

They needed to arrive in Sunspear a good day or two before the tourney so he could buy some steel armour and prepare for the jousting and melee competitions. Jon had been tempted to give archery a try, but it was not something he was that confident in. Theon Greyjoy was the best archer among the men he knew back in Winterfell, and he learned early on that his archery skills were only just good enough to be labelled as competent. He did not want to shame himself in front of the crowds.

Arya glanced over her slender shoulder before turning to face him. "I know a place," she replied, smiling. "But first, we eat and sleep." The plank streets they walked on were only wide enough for five people standing abreast. The crowded walkway bobbed up and down at every incoming wave. "Perros Sand cooks the best fiery dragon peppers in all of Dorne, and I have a certain craving."

"Gods save me," Jon mumbled, already starting to sweat at the thought. "I do hope my sweet lady knows that those peppers you love so much are likely to be the end of me."

She giggled, tilting her head to one side while tucking stands of dark hair behind her ear. "A good Dornish pepper make men strong," Arya said, a playful gleam in her eyes. "Worry not, brave knight. I won't force you to eat any. Now come, his shop is not far from here."

"As you say, my lady," Jon replied, sighing. He watched the sway of her back as she moved away, and somehow he knew he would be eating dragon peppers by the end of the day. Deny Arya Sand something and she would find a way to grasp it without fail. _It won't be so bad, _he thought, _at least I'll die staring into her violet eyes._

When sleep came that night, so did the fiery peppers. They had paid good coin for a nights rest at one of the more comfortable taverns in Planky Town. With bellies full of meat and summerwine, both Jon and Arya were visibly exhausted, and sleep came easy. He had fallen asleep on the soft bed, dreaming of a melee fight against a faceless foe when he tasted it. The first wave tasted strangely sweet, almost fruity, then came the burn. Confused and coughing, he was upright and tumbling over the edge of the bed.

In the distance he heard giggling, which soon turned into uncontrollable laughter. "Damn you, woman," he growled, coughing hoarsely. _You don't attack a foe when he sleeps._ The burning sensation deep in his throat was the worst, and made him want to retch. The wooden floor was scratchy and cold against his naked back. "_Water._ Arya, get me some water. Please."

Arya poked her head out from atop the bed and grinned at him, eyes teary from all the laughter. Her hair was tied in a long braid that fell down the side of the bed, almost touching the floor. "You made the _sweetest_ face, Jon Snow."

He watch her giggle some more before grabbing the pillow that had fallen with him. "That wasn't funny," Jon told her, throwing the pillow at her in frustration. Arya just laughed as the pillow hit her in the chest. Still coughing, he pushed himself up and walked over to the jug of water that was next to the basin. He drank the cool water greedily before splashing some on his flushed face.

When he turned around, Arya was sitting cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with the tip of her braided hair. She wore a light purple shift over a pair of cream-coloured smallclothes. Looking pleased with herself she said, "I told you they were the best peppers in Dorne."

Beside the bed were two small tables with candles on top, still burning. In the candlelight she looked stunning, a haunting picture of perfection, if ever there was such a thing. _Her imperfection is perfection, _Jon realised. "You're going to have to pay for this treachery," he said, grinning. There was still a burning sensation in his mouth.

A knowing smile touched on her lips. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, nothing much."

Arya giggled, and gave her lips a quick lick. "Don't play coy me, Jon Snow." She leaned back against the headboard and relaxed, watching him with an amused look. Her skin betrayed her calmness, though; a blush slowly spread across her cheeks. With skin as pale as porcelain, it was hard to hide such strong emotions.

"Take off your cloths," Jon commanded. He made no attempt to move, instead he stood near the basin and watched her blush under his searching gaze. Arya made no move to comply with his demand. She crossed her arms and looked at him with eyes that hinted at rebellion. "It was not a request, Arya." _One look of yours is enough to rouse the wolf within me. _"Take them off … _now._" At every breath she inhaled and exhaled, her chest rose and fell with a seductive appeal that had Jon biting his lip in order to control his growing urges.

Wordless, she obeyed. Arya pushed herself to her knees, clutching at the edges of the shimmering silk shift. Not even the layers of silky material could hide the fact her nipples had grown erect. In one swift motion the shift was up and over her head, falling into a pile on the floor beside the bed. Her braided hair swayed against her back as she removed her smallclothes piece by piece. Once she was naked, she reached over and grabbed the long braid, pulling it over her shoulder so that it fell down between the valley of her breasts.

The sight of Arya on her knees, naked on the bed in the glow of candlelight made his mouth go dry. Jon Snow would treasure this image of her, remember it until his last breath; the way her small breasts were perky and her nipples a soft pink colour, the lush way her waist and hip curved, the gap between her inner thighs and what was hidden between. He saw everything, wanted everything. But it was the violet in her eyes that always stole his heart.

"Is this my punishment," she purred, "to stand on my knees for the whole night?"

"No," he heard himself say. "You may sit." The _thumping_ in his chest was roaring now, the blood rushing through every vein, centring between his legs. Jon could feel his cock harden against his black breeches. The strain was painful. "I would have you. All of you." The need to have Arya in his arms was the most he had ever felt, not even their first time was this … this powerful.

That made her giggle. "Not much of a punishment, I dare say. More a pleasure …" she said, her voice trailing off into uncertainty. When he started walking towards the side of the bed, she blushed at the implication, becoming embarrassed all of a sudden. Arya sat on the bed with her legs drawn up and arms wrapped around them, watching him with uncertain eyes. "Jon?"

"Lay back for me," he whispered softly, sitting down next to her. "Do you trust me?"

"I do," Arya said, breathless.

When she was comfortable on the bed, he leaned over and gave her teats a kiss, one and then the other. Resting his head between her breasts, he closed his eyes and listened her heartbeat. _Was ever there a sound so sweet? _"I would make you feel good," he murmured against her skin, starting to kiss her again. Arya moaned when he took a nipple between his teeth, grasping at the coverlet with both hands like her life depended on it. "I love the rosy smell of your hair. I love your beautiful eyes, and the way you smile for me." He kissed his way down from her breasts to her navel to the dark hair at the juncture of her thighs. "I love your smooth legs, and what's between them." He ran a finger over her soft mound, feeling the course hair that grew there, and when she spread her legs a little, he gave her different kind of kiss.

Arya gave a little gasp. "Stop, Jon. That—_oh._ That, that's not where you—oh. _Ohhh._"

Afterward, her cheeks were flushed from ear to ear. "Jon Snow," Arya whispered shyly, when they lay together on the bed in each other's arms. She ran a hand over his chest, feeling the sweat and muscle and hair. "That thing you did with your … tongue." She hesitated. "It was … it was nice."

"Liked it, did you?" Jon grinned proudly.

"Maybe," she teased.

"You moaned so loud," he pointed out. "I think my sweet lady enjoyed herself very much."

"I … I liked it, some." Arya buried her face in the curve of his neck, embarrassed. "I've never experienced a pleasure like that before."

The candles had almost burned out, Jon noticed. The light was shifting all around the room, flickering and causing shadows to jump. When Arya yawned and rubbed her weary eyes with the back of her hand, he said, "We depart for Sunspear on the morrow, once dawn breaks. Get some sleep, my love. I would not have you half-asleep in the saddle."

"I love you, Jon Snow. You know that, right?" Arya gave him a shy smile. "No matter what happens in Sunspear. You're mine and I'm yours. Nothing will ever change that."

"I mean to be a champion," Jon promised, nuzzling her hair. "_Your_ champion. I will win the jousting and melee competitions. You'll see. I'll unhorse knights and lords and kings if need be. I'll defeat every one of them, and prove my worth to you." _I'll prove my worth to everyone. _

"You already have," Arya sighed, falling asleep.


	4. Chapter Four

**Enjoy.**

**Amidst the Winter Rain  
**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

A brisk wind swirled through miles of narrow alleys, hidden courts, and noisy bazaars of the shadow city. The days grew colder still, and would continue to. _Winter is here, and only the gods know for how long._ The Dornish may have been able to resist the Targaryens for a century and a half, but nature itself was an undefeated foe. Jon Snow brushed lightly over the hilt of his longsword with his fingers as he trailed behind Arya. She led him passed mud-brick shops and windowless hovels, back to the expensive inn they had paid for. Most of the stables, taverns, winesinks and pillow houses in the shadow city were built from mud and straw, and only a few had four walls that had yet to crumble.

The ancient seat of House Martell was north of the Greenblood, surrounded on three sides by the sea. On the west side the shadow city clung to its walls, overshadowed by the castle's three massive Winding Walls that encircled one another. The only way in and out of the walled settlement without getting lost in the countless alleys was through the Threefold Gate, where each gate lined up one behind the other, all the way to Old Palace.

They had arrived in the morning, just as the sun pierced through the horizon. Arya had visited Sunspear before, and had a good recollection of where the best stables and inns and armourers were. They sold both sand steeds to a Tyroshi merchant for a handful of silver and bought a warhorse named Nightfall from one of the local stables near the three-storey inn. The big black stallion was a healthy horse, well breed and fed by the looks of him. A fine horse to use in a tourney, Jon knew. He paid the stable boy an extra silver to keep Nightfall watered and fed while they retired for the night.

"Nine hundred stags," Jon mumbled, once they were alone in the candlelit room that smelled of desert flowers. "Nine hundred for a bloody suit of worn-out steel plate, with gorget, greaves, greathelm, and a shield of oak and iron that has seen better days." The armour he had bought earlier on in the day was laid out on the bed, and he studied his purchase with a frown etched across his brows.

"Those fancy looking mail and plate you wanted so badly would have cost six golden dragons," Arya said firmly, starting to undress. The coloured silks puddled at her feet. "Who buys armour that cost six golden dragons? No one in their right mind, that's who." Once she was in her smallclothes, she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for something on the nearby oaken table.

"I want to look a proper knight when I compete in the tourney. My fair lady deserves a warrior in beautifully crafted armour fighting for her love and honour."

Arya sighed, combing her long hair methodically while looking at her reflection in a polished ivory glass; a keepsake of her dead mother. "I don't care for such things, Jon Snow. I'd rather have you in good steel, strong and plain, then some prettied up armour that's weaker. I'd have you plain and safe, then pretty and dead."

How could he argue with that? Jon offered a tired smile. "You're right, as always, my love." He stole one last look before moving the armour and shield from the bed to the table. Patterned Myrish carpets were laid out on the floor, soft beneath his feet. On a wall was a faded tapestry, depicting Nymeria and her ten thousand ships. "Tomorrow I'll go and find the master of games," he told her as she helped undress him. The Dornish garb of silk and satin was comfortable, more comfortable then the leather and fur he was used to wearing in Winterfell. "I'll enlist in the joust and melee competitions. As a mystery knight, of course." Lord Stark had given him a signed letter the day he left Winterfell, vouching for him. Knighthood was rare in the North, so this was the only way for a bastard of the North to enter a tourney that was held only for lords and knights.

"You'll need a sigil of your own, won't you?" Arya asked, clearly interested in the topic.

"A sigil?" Jon had almost forgotten about that. "I don't … I haven't thought one up yet."

"I could help," she said, beaming. "We could think one up together."

"I'd like that, Arya. What did you have in mind?"

They spent the next few hours under the warmth of the Myrish blankets, talking and laughing in hushed voices. It was odd how easily he lost track of time when he was in her arms. Jon yawned, staring at her sleeping face. _A white wolf running across a field of night and stars, chasing after a violet coloured moon. _She had been so excited when they finally decided on that sigil. The thought made him smile. In his mind's eye he could see the field and device on his shield of oak and iron, colours and all. _I'm the wolf and she's the moon, and I'll forever chase her heart. _

When morning came, the sky over Sunspear was overcast, promising another bleak day. The shadows of the afternoon were starting to spread when they finally decided to leave the warmth of the inn and head towards the tourney grounds. They learned from a passing merchant that the tourney would commence in two days, and that the competition registration would end tomorrow night. Jon needed to enrol his name and get the sigil painted on his shield before then. He took Arya's hand in his own and led her through the dusty streets.

Outside the shadow city, half a mile east was a flat stretch of hard earth. Dozens of merchants had erected their stalls along the edge of the sandy field, selling meat and fruits, belts and boots, swords and shields, earthenware, gemstones, spices, silks, and all manner of other goods. Musicians and puppeteers provided entertainment to the passing masses. Scores of tents and pavilions had already sprung up, forming a makeshift camp of sorts. Some were the largest he had ever seen, some the smallest; some were made from silk, others from linen; but all were coloured brightly, with long streaming banners on every centre pole. The fluttering banners were like a field of wildflowers that were coloured with deep reds and rich yellows, half a hundred different shades of green and blue, greys and blacks and purples.

Jon recognised most of the heraldry, and pointed each one out to Arya, who gasped in delight at the rich history before them. The crowned stag belonged to Lord Stannis Baratheon of Storm's End, the Unforgiving Storm they called him. The Tarly huntsman was for Randyll Tarly, one of the finest battle commanders in Westeros his father had once said. He picked out the golden Tyrell rose, House Arryn's white falcon, the black lightning of the Dondarrions. The proud lions of House Lannister roared atop their banners, red over gold. In the middle of the large makeshift camp flew the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The royal pavilion was made of black silk, with a line of pointed scarlet pennons hanging from its roof like long red flames. On the left, beside the Targaryen banner, flew the red sun pierced by a golden spear of House Martell, and far beyond them were countless others. Fossoway, Marbrand, Cargyll, Westerling, Mormont, Swann, Mullendore, Hightower, Mallister, Florent, Frey, Penrose, Tully, Stokeworth, Daffy, Parren, Wylde; it seemed as though every noble house had sent a knight or two to Sunspear to enter the lists.

"I though your kin wouldn't be attending the tourney," Arya said, giving him a look.

Jon glanced at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Over there." She pointed. "Behind the pavilion of House Whent."

It took a moment, but then he saw what she was gesturing at. Half hidden behind the yellow-and-black pavilion was a larger one of white-and-grey, which towered over the smaller ones nearby. Atop the centre pole flew the banner of House Stark. "I never knew," Jon muttered. "They never told me they would come." And he had departed before they did … so how did they make it to Sunspear before him?

"Maybe they changed their minds?"

"Perhaps."

"Introduce me," Arya asked suddenly, blushing delightfully in the afternoon light. Her dark hair flowed down past her shoulders, and a sudden northern breeze sent strands flying. She grabbed his hands and put it up against her chest, close to her heart. "I would meet with Lord Stark, and thank him for siring such a handsome young man." She wore a proper dress this time, not the flowing Dornish silks that she favoured during the journey. A sleeveless gown of black satin trimmed with purple Myrish lace clung to her smooth skin, her milky shoulders bare. Her laced up bodice was decorated with swirls and spirals of tiny amethysts that complemented the violet of her eyes. A beautiful gown in truth, the most expensive one she owned.

Jon's face burned at her boldness. He tried and failed to keep eye contact. "I … I'd be glad to introduce you to my family."

Two armed guardsmen in mailed shirts and grey wool cloaks trimmed with white satin stood at the entrance to the large square pavilion. Near the entrance, the greatsword Ice was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with the direwolf of House Stark. When they approached, the guard with the stern brown eyes and grey beard took a step forward. "Halt." The old guard studied the two a long moment before smiling. "Jon Snow," he laughed. "Well I'll be thrice damned. I almost didn't recognise you in those Dornish rags. I didn't think you'd make it this far, truth be told." He laughed once more. "Who's the pretty little lady clinging to your side?"

"Desmond," Jon sighed. _You old fool. _"Would you be so kind as to let us through? I would speak with my lord father."

"Aye," Desmond replied smugly, gesturing for the other guard, Tomard, to comply as well.

Inside it was warm and cosy. A handful of sausages sizzled and spit over a small firepit that had been dug out in one corner, spicing the air with the scents of garlic and pepper. On the other side, Lord Eddard Stark sat behind a long oak table, parchment in hand, eyes downcast. His father seemed tired, and older than his years. _Bran,_ he thought, happy to see the mop of auburn hair that streamed down to his skinny shoulders. His younger brother sat idly near the firepit, cross-legged, unaware of his presence. Jon looked around curiously, but could not see Robb or Sansa anywhere.

Arya gave his hand a gentle squeeze before breaking the silence. "My lord," she said nervously, her voice almost breaking.

His father glanced up, slightly surprised. Bran frowned as he half-turned at the intrusion, but grinned broadly once he laid eyes on Jon. The eleven-year-old rose to his feet before rushing and crashing into his older brother's arms. "Jon," Bran breathed, excited. "I was wondering when you'd arrive. I was waiting. Robb won't let me squire for him. Can I squire for you? Please? I'll be a honest and true squire, I promise."

"Bran." His father spoke softly but sternly. "Leave your brother be, and keep tending to the sausages, or they'll burn black and we'll have nothing to eat." Bran detached himself from Jon and stood defiant for a moment, a thoughtful look spread across his young face. But in the end he did as he was told and walked meekly back to the firepit. The meat was almost cooked by the smell of it. "Did you arrive in Sunspear today?" The Lord of Winterfell glanced warily between Jon and Arya, his brows bumping together in what seemed like a frown. A look of recognition flashed before his grey eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by sorrow and something akin to fear.

"Yesterday morning," Jon replied, caressing Arya's knuckles with his thumb. She looked unsure of herself, and somewhat nervous under his lord father's gaze. He could feel her hand starting to sweat. "Father. May I introduce you to Arya Sand of Starfall, daughter of—"

"—Ashara Dayne," his father finished, sighing. There was a brief silence before he finally continued speaking. "You look just like your mother, my lady. You have the same eyes and hair as Ashara. I would recognise you anywhere."

"My aunt has told me the same, many times," Arya said sadly. "Did you know my mother, my lord?"

"Twice I met her." His father lowered the parchment in his hands, gingerly setting it to one side. "Once at the great tourney in Harrenhal, and once again at Starfall … when I returned the greatsword Dawn to your mother's own hands." Shame dawned over his features. "I … I was saddened when I heard of your mothers passing. She was a gentle soul, and didn't deserve to die so young."

Arya nodded weakly, reaching up to wipe away tears that had yet to fall. "Thank you, my lord." She sought out Jon's hand once more and squeezed it tighter than before, unwilling to let go this time.

Before Jon Snow could speak words of comfort to her, he felt a big slap on his back. "Brother," Robb said, smiling handsomely. All of his trueborn siblings favoured their Tully side. Robb Stark had a hard and muscular build, with blue eyes and thick red-brown hair that fell down to his shoulders. He was dressed in mail and boiled leather, and a grey cloak trimmed with fur was fastened to his broad shoulders. A castle forged longsword was buckled to one side of his belt, a slender dirk on the other. He looked like the lord he would become someday. "How faired the ride through the desert? Hot I'd presume, or maybe cold?"

"Comfortable," Jon blurted, blushing at the sudden memories that filtered into his mind; of laying under the stars and moon in Arya's warm arms; of kissing and cuddling and touching and—_Don't think about that now, _he scolded himself, feeling his cock twitch. He would die of embarrassment if he grew hard in front of everyone. He needed to change the topic. "I hope you didn't travel through the red sands in that." He gestured at what Robb was wearing. "I'm surprised you survived the journey."

Robb laughed. "Gods no. We chartered a ship from White Harbour and sailed all the way down to Planky Town. Father decided it best for us to attend, lest the royal family takes offence at our absence."

No wonder they had arrived before him. "I'm glad you're here, Stark. Where better to unhorse the future Lord of Winterfell? The whole realm will be watching." Jon grinned. "And I mean to be a champion."

The challenge was in Robb's eyes now. Fierce and unyielding. "Do you now? Well … brother. I _suppose_ a man is entitled to his own dreams. As _unlikely_ as they may be."

Arya couldn't help but giggle at the playful banter.

"Forgive me, my lady," Robb said sheepishly, looking embarrassed. "I almost didn't notice you there." He glanced down and saw that her hand was entwined with his brother's. He grinned knowingly. "Well I'll be damned, brother. Never thought I'd see the day. And she's a true beauty to boot."

Arya blushed and looked away, nervously tucking strands of her hair behind her pink ear.

"Robb," his father said sharply, seemingly uncomfortable with the topic that was being discussed. "Where's Sansa? Go and find your sister before she gets herself into trouble. Take Bran with you."

"Yes, Father. Though I doubt our perfect little lady will get into any trouble. She's much too _ladylike_ for that." Robb laughed, and before he turned to leave he looked at Arya one last time. "May I ask for your name, my lady?"

She hesitated. "Arya," she answered after a short moment. "Arya Sand of Starfall."

"A pleasure," Robb said with a slight bow of the head. "No doubt we'll be seeing more of each other in the near future." He gave Jon a knowing look, grinned, and walked back out through the flaps of the pavilion. Bran followed closely behind, calling for Robb to slow down.

The Lord of Winterfell was fidgeting with something in his hand, obviously nervous at something. "You two …" he trailed off, his face ashen. "You didn't?" he stopped again, lost in thought this time. His father sighed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, composing himself. "You two met in Starfall, I presume?"

"We did," Arya said shyly. "We meet on a bridge, under rain and stars."

"I'm in love with her," Jon declared, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him to say. Heart racing and confidence surging through his veins, he continued. "I've asked for her hand in marriage, father." _He has no reason to disagree, _he thought, hoping. _We're only bastards, and bastards have a right to love._ They already shared a bed. It would be the most honourable thing to do, he knew. "I mean to win the jousting and crown Arya for my queen of love and beauty. We are in love."

A sudden sadness befell the Lord of Winterfell. His father sat there, staring, wordless.

Arya noticed the awkwardness that started tainting the air. "It's true, my lord." She looked at Jon helplessly, wanting him to do or say something. "We're in love." There was a kind of desperation in her voice that pleaded for understanding. She was scared.

His father still said nothing.

Jon felt heat rushing to his face. He was growing angrier by the second. Why would his father refuse him this one thing his heart desires? "_Father,_" he pleaded, breathing heavily. But still the Lord of Winterfell sat silent upon his chair, jaws clenched tight, staring at them with blank eyes. "Please, father. You cannot mean to deny us this?"

There was only silence in the pavilion.

Arya's shoulders slumped in defeat. She bit her lip and glanced away, eyes teary.

Jon curled his arm around her waist and tugged her closer to him. What he felt for her was beyond communication, beyond reason, beyond honour and duty and everything else that was earthly. He had never felt this way about anyone before, and would be damned if he let anyone take it away. He loved her and she loved him. That was all that mattered. But his father's silence still hurt more then he thought possible. "I didn't come here to ask for permission," he snapped. "Arya is the star of my heart, the only one who truly understands me. And I _will _marry her."

"You will not," his father said sternly. "You must understand—"

Jon shook his head, cutting him off mid-sentence. _Once you've grasped the light of a star. How can you__ ever let it slip through your fingers? _"I will, father. I promise you that." He pivoted on his heel and took off, pulling Arya with him. Once outside the warmth of the pavilion, they knifed their way through the crowds of merchants and knights and lords, not looking back.


	5. Chapter Five

**Enjoy.**

**Amidst the Winter Rain**

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"We're going to be late," Arya complained, pouting.

"We're almost there," Jon said. "The jousting starts at noon." He looked up, studying the rising sun that was partially hidden behind grey clouds. He knew the walk from the shadow city to the tourney ground usually took a good twenty minutes or so, depending. Or five minutes riding on a good sturdy horse. The sun had yet to reach its highest point in the sky. "We still have time."

"I'd hate to miss the first tilt."

"We won't," he reassured her, smiling.

The caravan they joined up with kept a slow but steady pace. The hard winding road from the shadow city to the tourney ground was bustling with knights and wagons and merchants. Arya and Jon trailed behind an armourer's wagon that was being drawn by four heavy draft horses. The wagon was more lavish than the others, distinguished by a red sword and anvil that was painted on both sides. A dozen more wagons lined the road, all carrying creates and barrels full with all manner of goods. Some of the knights were on foot, whilst others on horses. All the merchants rode atop the wagons they owned.

After another five minutes of walking the sounds of song and laughter started drifting through the air. The tourney ground came into view. The first day of competitions was about to begin, and Jon Snow couldn't help but smile nervously. This would be the first tourney he attended, and he needed to prove himself to be a true knight. He _needed_ to win. He promised Arya as much, and he was a man that kept his promises.

Arya was excited, as he knew she would be. The whole ordeal with his father had left her disheartened and sullen for the last two days, but with gentle words and caresses, her mood had gradually improved. The tourney also served to brighten her mode. She was looking forward to the jousting just as much as he was.

"Let's hurry, my lady." Jon took her hand and led her towards the viewing stands.

It was busy; busier than yesterday and the day before. The busiest he'd ever seen one place in all his seventeen years. The tourney ground was churning with people and animals. Wagons and carts were being pulled up and down makeshift roads that wound around pavilions and stalls. Hedge knights and their squires were striding back and forth, laughing and boosting about their prowess. Smoke rose from numerous firepits that were scattered around the makeshift town. The smell of meat and smoke and piss was heavy in the air. By the time they reached the stands, half the seats were already taken.

The viewing stands were filling up with highborn lords and ladies, a few rich merchants and townfolk, and a score of knights who had decided not to compete today. The sigil of House Dayne was embroidered on Arya's cloak of flowing purple silk, and on Jon's cloak of grey wool was the sigil of House Stark. Save the sideways glances she received, no one paid them any mind as they walked onto the viewing stands and sought out empty seats. Everyone seemed too interested in the jousting that was about to begin. After a minute of quick searching they managed to find vacant seats near the front, close to the fence.

In the shadow city they had paid good coin to break their fast on flatbread, goose eggs and crispy bacon, but once the food had been served, Jon found his appetite had vanished. Even now his belly felt knotted and hard as stone, even though he knew he would not enter the lists until the second day. The right of first challenge would always go to knights of higher birth and greater renown, to lords and champions from past tourneys.

Across the field was another viewing stand. The royal family and members of House Martell sat beside one another on cushioned armchairs, voices mingling with light conversation. Although Jon had never laid eyes on the king before, he knew from one look where the king sat. Rhaegar Targaryen was seated beside his queen in the middle of the viewing stand, on a roofed platform that was specifically crafted for them and other members of the royal family. With dark hair, black eyes and an olive complexion, Elia Martell was still fair to look upon. From the stories he heard, Jon knew her to be a gentle, good, and gracious queen, but frail due to her delicate health.

On the right side of the tall, silver-haired king sat a strikingly beautiful young woman. _Daenerys Targaryen, _he knew, _and those must be the royal heirs. _Princess Daenerys was beautiful in every aspect, with silver-blonde hair and purple eyes. Beside Daenerys Targaryen sat two other members of the royal family. Prince Aegon took after his father in looks; a lithe and well-made youth, with a lanky build. Princess Rhaenys was older than her brother by a few years, and the spitting image of her mother, save the frailty and height. Her brown hair was curled, and tumbled about her shoulders.

Behind the royal family stood the Kingsguard, their white cloaks swaying slightly. All seven wore helmets, but despite that Jon recognised Ser Oswell Whent who stood to the left. His helmet was emblazoned with a black bat with its wings spread. Everyone knew that helmet. _Ser Gerold Hightower, _he thought, knowing the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would be among them. _Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Arys Oakheart. Ser Lewyn Martell. Ser Jamie Lannister. Ser Jonothor Darry. _The finest knights in all the Seven Kingdoms.

"Jon," Arya said, gesturing. "That's the Red Viper sitting beside the queen. Oberyn Martell." She pointed out other members of House Martell, naming them and their weapons of choice. She was halfway through naming all the bastard daughters of the Red Viper when she suddenly trailed off into silence. Her smile faded, her eyes grew sad. "Your father and brothers are over there. I think they saw us."

Jon frowned, remembering. He searched the opposite viewing stand for a moment, then saw his father sitting beside Robb and Bran near the fence on the far left. The Lord of Winterfell was staring right at them, lips pursed in disappointment. Sansa sat behind them, giggling with other highborn ladies without a care in the world. "Don't worry," he said, pressing a soft kiss on her cheek. "Forget about that for now, Arya. Just enjoy the tourney." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. "I love you."

"I know," Arya whispered, smiling so sadly. She leaned comfortably against him, tilting her head to one side before giving him a sideways glance. "I love you too. But still … I would rather be sitting over there with them. With your family."

"I will talk with him afterwards."

"You saw how he looked at us just now. Why?" she trailed off. "Does he hate me?"

"Of course not." Jon shook his head, watching her violet eyes glisten. "No one in their right mind could hate you." _She just wants to be accepted, _he thought, heart clenching at the realisation. _Why can't you see that as well, Father?_ It broke his heart to see her this upset.

"I don't understand, though," Arya murmured.

"We will, soon enough. I promise."

A horn blew, signalling that the tourney would be commencing soon. Jon nervously fidgeted with his coin pouch that hung from his belt and heard the faint clink of silver. He could lose it all in a heartbeat, he knew, should he be unseated by another competitor. The vanquished would need to hand over their horse and armour to the vanquisher, then would need to ransom back all that they lost with silver and gold. _Don't let those thoughts poison you, _he thought, trying to calm himself. _You will win. You have too. To crown Arya in front of the realm would force Father's hand. He will have no choice but to accept our love. The whole realm surely will. _If everything went as planned, they would sing songs about this tourney. They would sing songs about her beauty. Arya deserved no less.

There were many different forms a tourney could follow, depending on the lord who hosted it. Some were battles between teams of knights, others pure melees where the glory went to the last warrior left standing. Archery was determined by skill and precision, and would usually take place at the last day of the tourney. King Rhaegar and Lord Martell was staging this tourney to celebrate the queen's forty-fourth nameday. The fair queen would reign as queen of love and beauty for the time being. The rules were simple. Five champions wearing her favours would defend her. All others must become challengers, but any man who could defeat one of the champions would take his place and stand as a champion himself, until such time as another challenger unseated him. At the end of three days of jousting, the one who remained champion the longest would determine whether the fair queen would retain the crown of love and beauty, or whether another would wear it in her place.

Jon stared at the sandy lists and pondered his chances. _The last time a five champion tilt took place was at the __tourney at Ashford Meadow._ The risk was high, higher still because he would be competing as a mystery knight. Seldom did men turn away from curiosity, and discovering the identity of a mystery knight was the epitome of curiosity. _One victory is all I need, _he thought, _then I can name myself one of the champions of Sunspear. _That would be the easy part. The hard part would be defending his position longer than the other champions.

"It's beginning," Arya said excitedly.

The five champions had raised their pavilions at the west end of the lists. They were the only pavilions that were allowed to be erected so close to the lists. From the viewing stands Jon had a perfect view of all five and the shields that hung outside their doors. A challenger needed to tap upon the shield to initiate a challenge. Two of the pavilions were a deep-dyed green, much bigger than the rest. The golden rose of Highgarden flapped above them. On one door hung a great green shield with a rose emblazoned in the middle, whilst there were two roses on the other shield.

"That must be Loras and Garlan Tyrell beside the tents, dressed in green and gold. Both are sons of Mace Tyrell, the current Lord of Highgarden," Jon said. He made a mental note of learning about all the renowned knights of Westeros. From what he heard, the brothers were probably the best knights from the Reach.

"I knew that," Arya said, scowling. "The purple tent next to the Tyrells is for Ser Gerold Dayne."

"Your uncle?" Jon was surprised at the harshness in her voice. He heard rumours about Ser Gerold Dayne of High Hermitage. A fierce and strong knight, but very cruel. Ser Gerold sat on a cushioned chair beside his pavilion, waiting. He didn't like the smug look of him. "You don't seem happy."

"He is _not_ my uncle … merely a distant kin. I've never liked the man." Arya swore under her breath. "The way he would stare at me in Starfall always made me uncomfortable. Darkstar he calls himself. What a pompous ass."

Jon clenched his fist, suddenly angry. _Darkstar, _he thought, staring daggers at the knight clad in purple-and-black armour. He pushed away the murderous thoughts and forced a change of topic. "Are you sure your aunt won't be attending the tourney?" Jon asked. It would do Arya some good to be in the company of family that loved her true.

She shook her head. "Ever since the tourney at Harrenhal, she's had a strong dislike for tourneys. Her betrothed might take part, though. But I'm not really sure."

"Betrothed?"

"Lord Beric Dondarrion of Blackhaven. Lightning Lord they call him. Edric is his squire."

"We should seek him out after," Jon said, interested in meeting this Lightning Lord. "Maybe your cousin is here, squiring for him. I would like to meet the young lord of Starfall."

Arya nodded, smiling. "He'd like you."

The fourth pavilion was bigger than Ser Gerald's, but smaller than the Tyrells. Sewn together from diamond shaped pieces of cloth the pavilion was coloured red and blue and black. Jon knew the colours, and told Arya they belonged to a renowned knight from the Riverlands named Brynden Tully, better known as Ser Brynden the Blackfish. He wore a striped blue-and-red cloak clasped with a black trout at each shoulder. "My brothers' great uncle. He fought valiantly alongside Ser Barristan Selmy during the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

The last pavilion was made from black silk, with bright red flames embroidered around the edges. The shield on its stand was black, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. No one was standing or sitting near the pavilion, which made Jon curious. Then he noticed Prince Aegon stand, kiss his mother's cheek and walk down from the viewing stand. The princeling strode confidently towards the pavilion, and was followed by one of the Kingsguard, his shining white armour stark against the black of the prince's. Watching him move, he wondered if any of the challengers would dare touch the prince's shield. Aegon was the king's firstborn, after all, heir apparent to the Iron Throne.

When the horns blew again, the challengers were summoned, and all five champions were called forth to defend the queen. Excitement roared through the crowd as the challengers appeared one by one at the east end of the lists. Heralds shouted out the name of each daring knight. They stopped before the viewing stand to dip their lances in salute to the king and queen, then trotted towards the west end of the field to choose their opponents.

Arya leaned forward without a word, trying to get a better look. Her smile was like the sun, bright and warm. Her hands were nestled on her lap, almost nervous like. Her eyes were dancing happily between the champions and challengers. She cheered along with the rest of the crowd when the first challenge was initiated.

Baelor Brightsmile of Oldtown struck the shield of Ser Brynden Tully, while his younger brother Ser Garth Hightower challenged Ser Garlan Tyrell. Ser Robar Royce tapped the star-patterned shield of Ser Gerald Dayne, Ser Beric Dondarrion knocked upon the prince's, and Ser Loras Tyrell was challenged by Harras Harlaw, the Knight of Grey Garden, wielder of Nightfall, the Valyrian steel sword with the moonstone pummel. The challengers trotted back to the east end of the lists. Both Baelor and Garth wore silver and smoke colours, a stone watcher stood vigil on their shields, crowned with fire. Ser Robar Royce was clad in steel engraved in bronze runes, over his shoulder flowed an embroidered bronze cloak. The Lightning Lord wore a cloak of black satin, decorated with stars; his breastplate and shield displayed a forked purple lightning bolt. The Knight of Grey Garden was the only knight from the Iron Islands to attend the tourney, and he was clad in plain lobstered steel, on his shield was his quartered sigil: a silver scythe on black, a peacock on cream. All five knights pointed their twelve-foot lances skyward and awaited their foes.

At the west end of the field, squires brought forth destriers for the champions to mount. They donned their helms and took up lance and shield.

"Is that him," Jon asked. "The squire helping Ser Beric." The squire had pale blonde hair and looked young, thirteen maybe, or fourteen.

Arya narrowed her eyes, a serious look on her face. A moment passed, then her eyes suddenly came to life. "That's him." She smiled genuinely. "My cousin is a sweet boy. Shy and good natured. He'll grow into a fine man one day."

As the champions trotted into position the tourney ground grew almost still. Each of the defenders had a wisp of red-and-orange silk wrapped around an arm; a favour bestowed by the fair queen. Arya held a breath, and Jon couldn't help but hold one as well. The quietness that swept through the crowds was nerve-racking. Then a horn sounded, and stillness turned to a thunderous tumult. Spurs dug deep and ten great warhorses charged forward. A thousand voices began to scream and shout, and the field almost seemed to shake beneath the roar. Forty hooves pounded the hard earth and sent up small clouds of dust, ten lances dipped and steadied, and champions and challengers came together in a rupturing clash of wood and steel. In the blink of an eye, the riders were beyond each other, turning around for another pass. Garth Hightower had been violently lifted from his saddle and flung to the ground, and the ever chivalrous Ser Garlan Tyrell quickly dismounted to give help to the fallen foe. A great roar of approval went up. Squires handed new lances to the jousters to replace the broken ones, and once again spurs dug deep into the warhorses.

Arya shouted happily at the passing riders. Her voice was almost drowned out by the thousand other voices. When the jousters' lances kissed once more in a rendering crash, the crowd grew even louder. Jon was on his feet now, cheering with the rest. Though this was the first tourney he'd ever watched, he knew it was a splendid display of prowess. Robar Royce fell in the second tilt, unhorsed by Darkstar, but he sprung to his feet at once and drew his longsword, and Ser Gerald Dayne dismounted swiftly to continue the fight. Baelor Brightsmile wasn't so lucky. His tall and broad-shouldered squire had ran onto the field once it was clear the grizzled knight wouldn't be upright anytime soon.

"Gods," Arya gasped, watching as two servingmen lifted the dazed knight by the arms to help him back to his pavilion. "That was a nasty fall. I do hope his alright."

"There's nothing to fear, my lady," Jon said, loud enough for her to hear. "The maesters will look him over." The genuine concern in her voice warmed his heart. He smiled and turned his attention back to the field.

The six knights who had remained ahorse were riding their third course. Robar Royce and Gerald Dayne were still at it with their longswords. More lances shattered around the duelling knights, and this time Prince Aegon aimed the tip of his lance with such accuracy that it kissed the Lightning Lord's shield and slide off to slam directly into his breastplate; the splintering sound was like thunder. The prince's lance splintered into a thousand pieces as Ser Beric Dondarrion was lifted from his stirrups and thrown from his horse. By then Ser Robar Royce had beaten Darkstar into surrender, something the Dornish in the crowds had not expected, and the resulting cheer was deafening.

Harras Harlaw and Loras Tyrell rode against each other the longest, nine times in all. On the ninth pass, the Knight of Grey Garden had found purchase on the rose engraved breastplate and unhorsed the Knight of Flowers in a spectacular fashion. The crowds had been waiting for this moment, the moment when Ser Harras Harlow unsheathed Nightfall and showed the world what a Valyrian steel blade looked like in battle. Arya held in a breath at every clash of the sword, her concern for her aunt's betrothed all but forgotten by now. It seemed Ser Loras was as good a warrior as a jouster, but Ser Harras seemed the more experienced fighter. That and Nightfall had the longer reach. Ser Loras Tyrell admitted defeat after a few minutes of intense swordplay.

Arya was left in awe.

Ser Harras Harlow and Ser Robar Royce would now take their places among the champions, replacing the men they had defeated. _I shall join them tomorrow, _Jon thought, imagining. _Will they cheer for me as they do for them? _Every tourney had a mystery knight or two. They sang songs about the ones who proved themselves to be great jousters. There was a hunger inside him, he could feel it now. It crawled under his skin, in his flesh and bone, made his heart race. This hunger to prevail gave him hope.

The sudden sound of trumpets announced that new challengers had entered the lists. The heralds started shouting their names. "Ser Symond of House Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars." He had nine stars emblazoned on his shield of black-and-yellow, though his surcoat was patterned with what appeared to be swords with six-pointed stars as pommels. The heralds were about to call the second challenger when the grey sky gave a merciless cry, and rain began to fall with a sudden fury. The sun was barely visible from behind the thick clouds that had drifted in from the north. Lightning forked across the sky, and thunder followed like a beating drum. The crackling sound was loud and angry. Rain continued to fall, stronger and stronger as the seconds passed.

"Fuss and feathers." Arya frowned, disappointed. "They can't continue in this weather."

"Winter is here," Jon said grimly, also disappointed in sudden turn of events. "The rain doesn't seem like it will let up any time soon. I hope it won't affect tomorrows joust—_Ow!_ What in seven hells …"

Arya shrieked as a copious hailstorm descended all around them. The frozen raindrops were the size of buttons, but that didn't mean it was any less annoying. "Gods—_ow!_ Jon Snow! You stop laughing this second. We have to find shelter. Ouch! Fuck—_ow!_ Stop laughing!"

The rain and hail were cold against the skin, but watching the crowds of lords and ladies fleeing in all directions, shouting and flailing like drowning sailors was beyond hilarious. Jon laughed despite himself, and continued to laugh as he grabbed Arya's hand and let her down the viewing stands and through the fleeing crowds. It was somewhat liberating.

They were nearly soaked to the bone by the time they reached the white-and-grey pavilion. With nowhere to go, the Stark's pavilion had been there only option for reprieve from the weather. The guards that were usually stationed outside were nowhere to be seen. Inside it was warm; a fire burned in the firepit. They were alone, for now. But he knew that any minute now the Starks would burst through the flaps, wet and grim and surprised to see them. Jon frowned at the realisation that he didn't know what he'd say to his father once they came face to face again. "My lady—"

Arya swatted him hard. "Everyone was staring at us." She took a step back and crossed her arms, giving him a look. Her long-sleeved dress of purple silk had darkened from the rain, and clung to her skin. Droplets were dripping from the tips of her hair. "You acted like a child that experienced rain for the first time." She tried to keep a straight face, but the edges of her lips were starting to curl into a smile. "It was embarrassing."

"Forgive me, Mother. I'm a child at heart, it's true." Jon chuckled, which earned him another playful swat. "Even drenched you look beautiful."

"_Hmpf._" Arya combed through her wet hair with fingers, starting to shiver. "I'd rather be warm," she said, sighing. "It's cold."

Wordlessly, Jon unclasped his wool cloak and stepped close to her, spreading it over the other cloak she wore. It was almost an embrace. She was so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the smell of hair and the tickle of her breath against his jaw. At a loss for words, he just stood there, staring into her violet eyes.

She smiled shyly, suddenly self-conscious. "Is there something on my face?"

He answered with a kiss.

"Don't," Arya managed to whisper in-between the many kisses that followed. "Not here. Your father …" she trailed off once she saw the determination in his dark grey eyes.

Jon Snow was long passed caring. Her lips were soft and warm, her body like a flame that burned his insides. "Why not?" he asked softly, pulling back. "I do not care what others think, Arya." He gazed at the arch of her neck near her ear. "Is it so wrong to kiss the woman I love? The woman who holds my heart between her hands?" He touched her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his searching fingers. "Is it so wrong to express these … these feelings I feel inside. I feel them building up whenever I'm alone with you. It builds and builds until it feels like I'm about to erupt from the inside out. You are like the sun and moon, Arya Sand. I would die without your light."

Arya flushed a deep crimson and bit her lips, giving him a searching look. After a silent moment passed between them, she eased into the hand that had found its way to her cheek and sighed. "What am I to do with you?"

Jon smiled knowingly.

She kissed him then, long and slow and full with need. She kissed him until his hands had found a way into the layers of her dress. Without realising, they had moved away from the warmth of the firepit towards the long oak table. He pushed her up against the polished wood, spreading her legs and hiking up her skirts.

"Hurry," Arya moaned, throwing her arms around his neck for support. "Please."

Heart _thumping_ against his ribcage, Jon Snow knew it was a terrible idea. With the weather what it was, the Starks would be returning to the pavilion any time now. He could hear his own heartbeat, and it was like a drum that drowned out his common sense. He looked down and saw her exposed thighs. _A sight so lovely, _he thought,_ so beautiful._ _So white. Just like porcelain. _

"Make me warm, please." Her voice was low, husky, and full of desperation. "I _need_ you_._"

_I could never refuse you, Arya._ "Gods." Maybe the risk was what made it more thrilling. Nevertheless, Jon reached down and touched her lightly at first, feeling the smoothness of her thighs. Arya wore grey knee-high stockings, and two layers of silken smallclothes. When he pressed a finger to her sex, he heard her suck in her breath.

"Hurry," she pleaded, gasping for breath. "Before anyone arrives."

When he entered her, she welcomed him with small, shuddering gasps of pleasure, and for half a heartbeat, nothing else mattered in the world. Nothing but her.

Everything was perfect.


End file.
